


The Equilibrists

by natashass



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Bath Sex, F/F, First Time, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:53:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natashass/pseuds/natashass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It is the time that you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important." (XXI, The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry)</p><p>or, a few truths that Sansa Stark had accepted and that one lie she chose to believe in</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. From which came heat that flamed upon the kiss

**Author's Note:**

> I was about to name this Sansa and Margaery's sexcapades in King's Landing. [headdesks] This will be a 5 part fic, which will be updated soon. It was supposed to be one entire thing, but I couldn't help myself. 
> 
> This will be 5 installments of sex. Just sex. You're welcome.

…………

           

 _Full of her long white arms and milky skin_  
_She had a thousand times remembered sin._  
_Alone in the press of people traveled she,_  
_Minding her jacinth, and myrrh, and ivory._

  
_Mouth he remembered: the quaint orifice_  
_From which came heat that flamed upon the kiss,_  
_Till cold words came down spiral from the head._  
_Grey doves from the officious tower illsped._

…………

 

“Pretty girls, you said. What did you mean by that?”  Sansa brought it up one evening during a dinner at her own chambers. The night was young, yet the skies were dark. It only deemed right, for Margaery Tyrell often invited her to her quarters at the break of dawn.

It had been intriguing. _Pretty girls,_ Margaery said during one of their long strolls after presenting Sansa that rose. Ever since then, she had wondered what the Tyrell girl meant every single time she laid her head onto her pillow. _Pretty girls,_ her mind echoed in Margaery’s voice. _Pretty girls._

Sansa has never taken more than two cups of fruitwine, and now twice as much cups of the sweet drink swam in her veins, making the room warmer than it is on a mild night in King’s Landing, with the summer winds passing through her vast windows. Yet the lady Margaery took seven goblets but the wine did not seem to take its toll on her, so Sansa hardened herself to take another more. The wine was good, so why not enjoy it a little more?

“What about them?”

Margaery seemed amused to find Sansa flustered and red. She drank from her goblet, but her eyes maintained on Sansa.

“Some women like them? Is that. . .” Sansa trailed off with knit brows, not entirely sure how to end the inquiry (a genuine one, at that) without offending Margaery in some way. Truthfully, she never thought women could think of other women _that_ way not until Margaery said so, and since then Sansa cannot take her eyes from Margaery’s lips when she smiles, cannot prohibit her heart from fluttering when Margaery calls her a dozen of endearing names.

“Why not? Men can desire women _and_ men. Women can do whatever they want as long as they’re certain that their hearts are guarded and protected from harm.”

Sansa wet her dry lips, eyes greatly resisting the urge to follow Margaery’s eyes as it trailed the trace of Sansa’s tongue. Why should they protect their hearts from harm? If women loved women as men loved women, would it not be the same kind of affection where you allow yourself to open your heart and yourself to the person because you trust them with your soul?

She was confused, so she told Margaery exactly that.

The girl halted with a fig on her lips, staring at Sansa. Margaery leaned back, her fingers drumming on the armrest. She looked so. . . sad.

“It could be, but I chose it not to be that way for quite some time.”

“Why?” Sansa cursed her mouth silently, but revealed nothing of the like.

Margaery did not answer for a few moments, and Sansa’s quarters was heavily silent save for the sound of the draperies fluttering. Sansa opened her mouth to take back what she had asked, to mumble apologies, but there came out none.

“Love is a harsh thing,” said Margaery, toying with the fig with nimble fingers. “It completely allowing someone to have an arrow to your chest as you hope that they won’t let it pierce you and hurt you. I couldn’t—can’t—have that.”

Sansa watched her carefully, but her heart raced at the admission. It broke her heart to watch Margaery with such sadness replace the usual playfulness in her eyes.

“I suppose we have dined long enough,” a thin smile graced Margaery’s face. “I should let you rest, my lady. Thank you, good night.”

Yet before she could even make two paces away from the table, Sansa caught her wrist in a tight grip.

“Stay,” there was a beat of silence, before the slightly (or not, she doesn’t really know) befuddled Sansa can remember herself, even just the slightest, “lady Margaery. I. . . I understand.”

Sansa did, more than any other person. She knew the pain of loving and having it ripped away from her far before she could say farewell. She knew how much it hurt to have the closes to you abandon you. She knew how trust was such a rare jewel in this wretched place where secrets were traded for _real_ jewels.

Sansa was not a stranger to lies and hurt. So she told Margaery. “It hurts so much, I know.”

Rising to her feet, she pulled Margaery into an embrace that she hoped told the Tyrell girl that she was not lying when she said she understood. Their bodies fit together, Sansa realized, like puzzle pieces. The taller girl held Margaery’s hips and it was such a sweet embrace that she couldn’t resist but bury her nose into Margaery’s sweet-smelling hair. “It does,” Sansa tightened her fingers into her waist, “so much.”

It is partly the wine and partly the fact that Margaery clung to Sansa’s nightdress and partly Margaery’s frowning lips that Sansa closes the distance between them.

 

This was true: Sansa has only been kissed twice: one by the boy who became the monster who haunted her dream, and one by the horrifying man who called her _little bird._

This was true: It never felt like this.

 

It was a small kiss, ladies in court shared those often in court. They did not slide their mouths against each other, like how she remembered Theon and some girls would kiss, no.

They merely shared breaths, and Margaery tasted like wine and sugar.

Maybe this was why women liked pretty girls; because they are so gentle and soft and sweet.

Margaery pulled away, leaving Sansa hanging for more. Her cheeks were red and so were her lips and it secretly pleased Sansa that she has caused Margaery to be in this state, not seven cups of wine could. However, her clouded mind cleared enough for her to realize that she cannot read Margaery’s face and that she had just pulled away.

But before she started mumbling apologies, Margaery began kissing her again, hungrily and drunkenly this time, as if Sansa was the very air she breathed. “It’s about damn time you did that,” Margaery breathlessly said betwixt rushed kisses, hands carding through Sansa’s hair. “Are you sure?”

Sansa’s cloudy mind concluded that she wanted this, but she was not sure, not the slightest. Surely Margaery had lingered long enough to make her warm all over, to actually make Sansa want to do _this_ with her but naïveté made her withdraw from the girl. What if her body wasn’t enough to please Margaery? What if _she_ wasn’t enough for Margaery—

But Margaery’s dilated eyes met hers and it sent a rush of heat up and down her body, her white puffy slip falling off her shoulder. Looking at her and her flushed cheeks and unkempt curls, the irrational part of Sansa’s mind wanted this so much, so much that the place between her legs ached and grew wetter at the sight of a disheveled Margaery.

Sansa might not know her intentions yet, but she found herself leaning into Margaery and nodding, kissing until her head spun. The delicate hands on her shoulder nudged gently, as not to startle Sansa, backing Sansa to the bed until the bedding touched behind Sansa’s knees. She craned her neck to allow Margaery to press well placed kisses on her neck with meager nips of teeth that made her squirm underneath Margaery. _Seven hells,_ _that felt so good._

“Let me show you why women love pretty girls,” said Margaery breathlessly, looking up to Sansa to share a smile. “This is why I _like_ pretty girls. And you are one.”

Sansa flushed terribly at Margaery’s flattering words, then Margaery  leaned forward to press a lingering kiss to Sansa, tongue stroking hers and licking the roof of Sansa’s mouth that it was so inane it made Sansa so hot.

But her sober, rational self pushed Margaery slightly by the shoulder, no matter how intoxicating it is to have Margaery’s tongue in her mouth. The other girl’s eyes were half lidded, and the blush had spread down to her neck. It was a sight for sore eyes, how Margaery looked so content. It made Sansa’s stomach lurch with arousal, yet she had to look away. “I don’t know how to. . .” Sansa informed her with shame, now gaining back the ability to push Margaery away until her back was flush against the oak headboard. Her corselet was tossed over the edge of the bed, and Sansa realizes, she was naked as the day she was born. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

But Margaery followed her even across the bed, and kissed her again with a sweetness that made doubt fade and her toes curled on the dark red quilt. “I’m your first?” she asked, tucking strands of orange hair behind Sansa’s ear. “You’ll let me do this for you?” Sansa’s heart ached, and she nodded. _Better you than anyone else here._

Margaery regarded her like she was the most beautiful person she had seen, and it makes Sansa blush that her face might be of the same shade of the dark red duvet. She flashed Sansa a heart-melting grin, white teeth and all, and strokes Sansa’s cheek with the smooth pad of her thumb. “You will not be disappointed, my sweet.”

Margaery pressed feather-light kisses to her forehead, then to her nose, then to each of Sansa’s red cheeks. Then Margaery’s lips are on her neck: kissing, nipping and licking, treating Sansa as if she were made of glass, as if she would break if Margaery held her the wrong way. Sansa threaded her fingers through Margaery’s silk locks, arching into the girl above her, wanting to be touched and she never assumed that it would feel this way; pleasure to the point of insanity. Kissing lower, the nips and moth-like attentions came to a halt and Margaery looked up to Sansa with hooded eyes.

Sansa saw inebriety and desire blending in her eyes, but then the haziness clears enough to show concern. “Are you all right? Do you want me to stop?” Sansa shook her head stubbornly, hands skimming up and down Margaery’s silky arms.

Anxiousness lurked in her mind, and embarrassment caused her arms to cross over her breasts. Margaery only laughed, taking Sansa’s wrists to pull her arms away. “Don’t hide yourself from me; you’re very beautiful, Sansa.” Margaery’s eyes gleamed bright in the dim light which the candles lit, and she said so with such fondness that Sansa, yet again, reddens at her words followed by her heart threatening to beat out of her chest like a hummingbird within a cage.

 

This was true: She may not trust Margaery fully.

This was true: Oddly enough, she trusts Margaery with _this_.

 

Meeting Sansa’s eyes once more, Margaery swooped down to tongue at Sansa’s teats slowly with lips so soft and tender. The warmth blooming in Sansa’s bosom grew stronger at every swipe her wicked tongue made, and every time Margaery took the rosy nub between her teeth, gooseflesh rose on the skin of her arms. It felt maddeningly good, and Margaery smoothed her arms up and down the lengths of Sansa’s thighs soothingly.

Her breath quickened when Margaery’s pace increased, Sansa’s chest rising and falling when Margaery takes the other breast in her hand and holds the previous one between her thumb and index finger. Sansa sighed, not moaning or groaning or screaming like she wanted to.

Instead, choked noises came from her throat, working the sounds out, trying to adjust to the overwhelming pleasure that shot from her spine. Margaery seemed to notice, and she pulled away just to look at Sansa, close enough that Sansa could count the lashes on her eyelids.

“Don’t hold it back, please, Sansa, I want to hear you.”

Sansa nodded tightly, trusting the tone of Margaery’s voice. Struggling to dislodge the tightness of her throat, Sansa moaned once and heard the other girl’s breath hitch. She moaned again, much louder (and much more confident) this time when Margaery’s finger slips up Sansa’s middle, the place only Sansa has touched. “Do you want this?” asked Margaery, fingers halting all its ministrations. “Do you want me to touch you?”

Sansa arched, eyes looking upward because Margaery was driving her mad. “Gods yes—” Then Margaery found the stiffened nub on top her cunt, touching it lightly with her index finger and a moan escaped Sansa’s throat without permission.

“Oh—oh,” Sansa sighed at the ice cold pleasure crawling under her skin. She never thought her body was capable of feeling this way—she never thought that her body could feel something other than pain.

“Is this all right?” Margaery asked, facing Sansa. Dilated chestnut eyes stared at her with a question in them. Sansa nodded again.

In a sad attempt to lighten the implication of whatever they were going to do, Sansa laughed apprehensively. “Why do you keep asking? I’m fine,”

Sansa committed to her memory the way Margaery’s eyes crinkled fondly. “I want to make sure your first time is enjoyable, silly,” she rubbed noses with Sansa, yet her soft tone grew serious in a heartbeat. “I would not want you to think I’m taking advantage of you.”

 

This was true: The last time someone had considered what _she_ would feel before doing something felt like a lifetime ago.

This was true: She knew the subtly bloom in her heart was love, but she paid no attention to it.

 

There was a serious moment of silence. Sansa cupped her cheek and regarded her softly. “I want this.” Margaery nods, kissing her lips once more, then Margaery pressed her lips in a hot trail down her body.

She kissed everywhere—from her shoulders to the valley between Sansa’s teats, from her stomach to the line of hair below her navel to the orange curls covering her cunt leaving Sansa into a flustered mess underneath her. She kissed and kissed until there was no more of Sansa’s skin left un-kissed.

Suddenly when Margaery mouthed the top of Sansa’s womanhood, a surge of diffidence overtook her and Sansa moves away, leaning against the headboard heavily once again. Then Margaery’s head rose from between Sansa’s long legs, confusion and fear in her often calm and collected face.

“Did I hurt you?” she said quickly, sitting on her heels and the chill of the room crept up Sansa’s body. Yet Sansa sat upright quickly enough to pull Margaery back on her.

“I was just scared,” whispered Sansa after she kissed Margaery insistently, until Margaery seemed convinced and her tense body softened to lean closer to Sansa. _And insecure,_ Sansa failed to mention, and it was true.

“Let me do this for you,” Margaery said between kisses, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Sansa’s ear and wiping away the strands of orange locks sticking to her forehead. “I shan’t hurt you. But tell me if I do, sweetheart.” Sansa nodded in agreement.

Promises were something that never appealed to her ears, so Sansa half believes her. It was her second nature to do so.

Her stomach twisted in knots when Margaery kissed her cunt again, Margaery never releasing Sansa’s hand.

When Margaery tongued at the hood of her center, Sansa’s eyesight went white with pleasure. She had not expected the cold bolting up her spine so she arched her back and tightly thread the fingers of her free hand in Margaery’s hair. The coil in her stomach tightened when Margaery dipped her tongue to her slit, then raising her head to smile wickedly at a tremulous Sansa. “You taste delicious,” Margaery licked her lips enough for it to be explicit and it made Sansa’s blood run hot.

Sansa lost the ability to speak, and her body’s insides were tense with arousal, like a coiling metal ready to jump, so pulled Margaery’s head down to where she wants it. Margaery is surprised (and obviously amused) by Sansa’s neediness and Sansa would be lying if she were to say that she did not surprise herself by her boldness.

Taking the hint to bury her face between her legs, Margaery does so. She kissed the outer lips of Sansa’s cunt tenderly, while stroking the skin of the back of Sansa’s hand. It was so  tender that the gooseflesh rose on Sansa’s arms. Then Margaery’s other hand left her thigh to settle on the v of Sansa’s bosom, slender fingers parting Sansa’s lips to kiss the slit.

A moan escaped Sansa’s mouth and she jerked when the vibration of Margaery’s voice is felt on the stiffened bud.

“I never thought I’d make you this wet,” Margaery said and Sansa flushes and slightly tightens her legs around Margaery’s head. The dripping wetness between her thighs now made her feel disgusted with herself, and the inept feeling of desire coiling at the bottom of her stomach made her bashful and shy.

As if on cue, Margaery tapped at the flat of Sansa’s stomach, seemingly telling her to relax and let go of her head. So Sansa opened her thighs, and if it was possible, it felt better than before. The sight of Margaery licking the juices between her legs made her lightheaded and breathless that she had to cover her eyes with her arm to regain her breathing. It was too much for Sansa and she was sure she was on the brink of insanity.

“Relax,” Margaery mumbled into the sticky sweet skin of Sansa’s cunt, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure up her back. “You taste delectable.”

Sansa didn’t want to believe her, how could anyone taste nice below there, much more her? But at the way Margaery raised her head again to smile at her cattily and affectionately, Sansa believed her even for a second.

She struggled to find a reply, but her head spun and her breathing is labored but she didn’t have time to respond because Margaery ate her cunt hungrily: licking, biting, sucking alternatively and the entire world goes white only concentrating on the feeling of Margaery lapping at her cunt. The sounds of that her mouth made was deliciously wicked. She had been so caught up with her pleasure that she did not even recognize the sounds she was making—the sighs, the moans, the groans and the curses that seemed to drive Margaery just as mad as she is.

Margaery laughed again, the vibration almost making Sansa shatter into a million pieces.

Her legs tensed and her stomach knotted tightly and when she felt Margaery plunge tongue _through_ her slit, Sansa came almost immediately, spilling her juices into Margaery’s mouth.

Thinking that her release was unnatural yet again, Sansa thought Margaery would pull away, disgusted with her. But, like many of the times Margaery Tyrell surprised Sansa Stark, she did not pull away and sent another bolt of arousal up Sansa’s spine as Margaery licked her clean.

Sansa was a trembling heap, clutching the silk of Margaery’s brown locks in her fingers, and still trembled when Margaery kissed her way up to Sansa’s body, tender lips on her skin like a butterfly landing on a flower.

The blush of Margaery’s face spread until it reached the middle of her breasts and her eyes were still dilated, lips glossy with Sansa’s own juices. She saw Sansa’s eyes flicker to her lips deliberately to watch Sansa’s also dilated pupils follow the trail her tongue left.

Sansa pulled her into a searing kiss, still hot from her release. Margaery ventured her tongue into Sansa’s mouth and she realized with embarrassing arousal that she could taste herself. Salty and a little sweet. She knew Margaery tasted better.

She wanted to return the favor, to kiss Margaery between her legs to see her writhe underneath her, but Margaery settled beside Sansa to hold her close. But she is afraid the she will not do it as pleasurable as Margaery did so. Before she can even say so, Margaery rolled off to lie beside her to look at her with such fondness and desire that made something in Sansa melt.

“And that is why,” Margaery panted, arranging her hair then pulled Sansa’s hips to have her closer, “I love pretty girls.”

 

This was true: When they slept, it is the first time in a long time that her she had a dreamless sleep.

This was true: And even if she have not returned the favor, she knew she liked pretty girls too.

 

 …………

  
_Body: it was a white field ready for love,_  
_On her body's field, with the gaunt tower above,_  
_The lilies grew, beseeching him to take,_  
_If he would pluck and wear them, bruise and break._

_Eyes talking: Never mind the cruel words,_  
_Embrace my flowers, but not embrace the swords._  
_But what they said, the doves came straightway flying_  
_And unsaid: Honor, Honor, they came crying._

…………


	2. Embrace my flowers, but not embrace the swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are mine. 
> 
> HAPPY FEMSLASH FEBRUARY!!! Enjoy, yo.

 

 

..............

_Eyes talking: Never mind the cruel words,_  
_Embrace my flowers, but not embrace the swords._  
_But what they said, the doves came straightway flying_  
_And unsaid: Honor, Honor, they came crying._

_Importunate her doves. Too pure, too wise,_  
_Clambering on his shoulder, saying, Arise,_  
_Leave me now, and never let us meet,_  
_Eternal distance now command thy feet._

.............

 

Whatever they had, it continued for months.

They remained close friends in court, but lingering glances told about their warm, sticky nights in bed.

Sansa enjoyed the attention Margaery gave her deep into the night in the privacy of their chambers: the way she would hold Sansa against her chest to sing southern lullabies into her ear, voice husky as if Sansa was the only one allowed to hear it; the way Margaery’s fingers felt curling inside her in the place she was only allowed to touch and kiss.

She also enjoyed touching Margaery, loved kissing her pink lips down the white column of her neck, loved skimming her hands along creamy and soft thighs, loved the sweet and salty taste of her cunt on her tongue. The memory of Margaery’s inner walls tightening around her fingers, hot and silky, pulling her deep inside her until she did not know where her skin starts and Margaery’s end.

And her teats, her teats that bounced when they rocked frantically against one another. Sansa never thought she would enjoy such a thing, but three months ago, she hadn’t been interested in fucking anyone, ney, thinking of sex yet she found herself wanting to be anywhere near Margaery and her body and her sweet scent like the lovesick child that she is.  

Fleeting touches in public were exciting, Sansa came to realize

A simple squeeze of an elbow. A simple brush of hands while crossing paths with different entourages. A simple lacing of fingers under the table. A simple smile exchanged across the gardens during banquets. It all told of sticky nights tangled in silk sheets of whoever’s bed they crash into.

However pleasing all those may be, it was not only the physical attention that gravitated Sansa to Margaery.

Margaery was Sansa’s rock, the person who made her remember what living felt like, even though being trapped in the claws of the Lannisters made her think that her family will never be complete again. On days Sansa felt so alone, that Sansa missed the snow of Winterfell, that Sansa missed her siblings and her mother and her father, that Sansa receives a beating from the King and the goldcloaks, Margaery is there to hold her and listen to Sansa’s cries, to run her hands up and down her arms as she shook and shook and shook with anger and sadness.

Pain was forgotten, even for a short while, and when pain is no longer felt, a body craves numbness and happiness while it is away until it craves for the rarest things, one of those is love.

Though Sansa wasn’t sure what to make of whatever they had, she could not help but feel content and happy with Margaery. Kindness could be a possible term for it, but kindness did not have tongues down your throat or fingers thrusted inside you to make you come screaming. Kindness was polite, and civil. Kindness was not the stormy tint of jealousy in Margaery’s eyes when men leered and flirted with Sansa. Kindness was not the erratic rising and falling of their chests as they lay in the bliss of their release.

Love is only for stupid little girls who believed in knights and damsels in distress, she told herself, but a stupid little girl she is to feel the blooming ache in her chest when Margaery holds her close at night under the silken sheets.

It was dangerous to say it--dangerous to even think of it--but Sansa knew one thing about love. It only ended one way: with separation.

And sometime in the near future, that detachment was coming. But every time the thought of escaping King’s Landing crosses her mind for a brief moment, Sansa pushes it away immediately.

Sansa knew it, acknowledged the idea of separation from what could be her last taste of the sweetness of kindness (real or not real, but she chose not to think about that, too. It would hurt too much.) but it did not have to mean her following her own rules of detaching herself.

Anyone who had the chance of loving would say that love is passion as much as it is routine. They say passion is easy but routine is hard. Sansa would have agreed, if only she had not met Margaery. With her, it was different, not exactly how women would complain about their lovers and how the passion run out instantly after getting used to sex. Not exactly how old women complained bitterly about their husbands.

Sansa welcomed passion when it is wanted, yet she immensely enjoyed all the time spent in companionable silence watching the Tyrell girl sewing or painting, or vice versa, feeling Margaery’s eyes heavily regarding her as if committing her to memory. Sometimes either of them tuck their chins to the other’s shoulder, burying their noses in the equally soft skin. It made Sansa giddy, especially when Margaery was the only person she would laugh rather than the polite chuckle she offered most people, awfully ugly snorts that Margaery took as adorable.

It was her routines with Margaery that made her happy, passion was merely a pleasant addition.

This was true: Sansa assumed it was love. Her mind screamed otherwise, yet her heart responded that if ever it is not, at least it’s the closest thing to it. A long time ago, she had learned to test the waters of happiness for there might be a creature lurking under the waters. A long time ago, she had not believed in love. A long time ago, there were no risks to be taken.

 

This was true: Sansa did not care.

 

But after her marriage to Lord Tyrion, all those were forgotten.

All those routines--gone and erased painfully so.

Margaery no longer slept in Sansa’s chambers. Sansa daren’t visit hers. She rarely sees the Tyrell girl in the following weeks after the ceremony. If mornings were spent kissing each other’s lips tenderly as a sweet greeting, now Sansa broke her fast alone.

Sleep did not come to her easily, no. Companionless, or with her husband. Sleep did not grace her when she was beside Tyrion, who kept a large distance between them. Her body longed and ached for Margaery’s soft one, longed for her fingers carding through Sansa’s auburn hair and her soft snore filling the now dead silence of the night.

Her fears of separation were confirmed when they meet in court.

Margaery only smiled tightly, then disappeared as quick as her smile graced her pink lips.

Nothing. None of those lingering, sticky glances that promised warmth in bed. None of the gentle arm squeezes to acknowledge the presence of the other. They sat far, far away and Sansa felt her heart break at the sight of Margaery sparing her not a single glance afterwards.

This made no sense to Sansa. She had only done what was bidden of her, of what the Lannisters required her to do. She had just as much say in it as her husband. In the end, Margaery is still to marry King Joffrey, as the Tyrells have proposed as a treaty. Being infuriated and jealous was never an option for them both, and should never be one.

Conversing with Margaery was difficult as the rest of trying to fix their friendship. Oftentimes, (who was she kidding? It was every time) she tried to do so, it ended with heartbreak: the grating sensation at the pit of her heart. Margaery had only deflected it with a wave of her hand, mumbling something about attending to her wedding, only to see her attached to Joffrey’s arm like a vine, the incessant feeling of pang only worsening at the sight.

 

This was true: That was when her heart broke fully, for the third time of her life, when the cracks could no longer be mended.

This was true: There was no fixing this time.

 

Sansa missed Margaery and everything about her, almost achingly so. From the sweet fragrance of roses and the lavender taste of her skin with the tinge of salt from sweat, to the crinkle of her eyes and the scar on her left breast, which Sansa loved swiping her tongue over the white patch embossed on her skin that leaves Margaery to a trembling heap every single time. She felt shame when she is wet at the thought of Margaery’s voice as she comes and the way her breath is hot on her ear. On nights like those, she stands and goes to the tepid baths and finishes herself off. Weak orgasms by her fingers were what kept her sane for the past few weeks--months? Sansa doesn’t know--and when she is done, she climbs back to the bed she shared with Tyrion, who, gratefully, still kept a large distance between them.

Sometimes, she struggled to find the courage deep within her to confront Margaery and finally understand. Because Sansa is Sansa, and it bothers her to not understand. Finding the right words were easy, but finding the courage to say them was a different story. Unsaid words were probably better, but Sansa had to know--needed to know. At least if she understood, if she knew, then maybe it would be easier, though she can no longer say things like those without doubting herself.

 

This was true: Sansa prided herself for words, even if they were empty. Politeness drained the genuinity out of words.

This was true: Yet she found herself speaking the truth with Margaery.

 

Yet one day, Sansa found herself waiting in the corridor where Margaery walked through. She waited, rehearsing all the possible scenes that could occur while they were here. Lady Margaery, she thought of curtseying, may I have a word? If she said yes, then good. If she said no, then Sansa would have to make her. She wasn’t sure, no, not yet, but then she would have to be later. She sat there, pretending to sew, and Sansa cut the red string to thread it into the needle yet her fingers trembled slightly and her body thrummed with anticipation and apprehensiveness.

And when Sansa was able to get the thread through the needle hole, light footsteps echoed in the vestibules of the Keep, Sansa knew Margaery enough to distinguish those quick steps were hers. Muted, cursory steps that could be anyone’s, but she could hear the long and queenly strides.

“Lady Sansa,” Margaery said, Sansa did not look up from her needlework, and gratefulness to hear that familiar silky voice filled her almost immediately.

“Lady Margaery.”

The words escape her yet again, and so forth she kept her eyes at her needlework, praying to the gods to make her remember.

An uncomfortable air filled the space between them, so uncomfortable it was heavy on Sansa’s tongue while her mind refused to humor her with something intelligible to say.

Margaery sat beside Sansa, who did not notice a thing since her thoughts were too loud, and stared at her face until Sansa turned warmer at the weight of Margaery’s stare.

“I’m sorry.”

Sansa had expected to never forgive Margaery, but here she was, heart melting at those two words. No, she could not look at Margaery’s face, could not bear to see the small pout and sad, liquid eyes. “For everything. It--it wasn’t right of me.” For leaving you alone in the open, for the hostility and for the pain remained unspoken, but Sansa knew how to read between the lines.

A hand landed gently on hers, tentative and apologetic, and Sansa finally had the grit to turn her head and see Margaery, whose skin was glowing from the tall windows, watching her exactly how she imagined it in her head. No amount of preparation could help her not be overwhelmed by this.

Sansa took in a deep breath, not noticing that her breathing was uneven. She spoke without looking at Margaery, just at their joined hands.

“Why did you?”

Her hands shook underneath Margaery’s and she watched the other girl who seemed wordless. Margaery Tyrell, the sweet talker and the person who always knew what to say, was speechless.

Unanticipated anger boiled inside Sansa at every moment Margaery left her question unanswered. If she was not going to say something--if the prevailingly unflappable Rose of Highgarden was speechless because of a single question-- Sansa did not want to waste her time waiting because for the days that have passed, waiting was all that she did. She rose to her feet, smoothing her sweaty palms down the cloth of her dark blue skirt. “If you do not have anything to say, Lady Margaery, then I must be on my way,” said Sansa hurriedly, not quite meeting Margaery’s eyes. She struggled to tamp down her temper that did not rise often because at the end of the day Margaery will be the queen of the Seven Realms. Sometimes she forgets that. Sometimes she forgets that she loved this girl for trying to save her.

 

This was true: She almost believed that Margaery was her saving grace. But Margaery almost saved her from the Lannisters.

This was true: Almost doesn’t bridgethe gigantic gap between not quite and yes.

 

Sansa turned to say goodbye, but it shocked to feel Margaery’s lips crashing into hers, and is greeted by stone meeting her back. “What--” Sansa breathed with her hands on Margaery’s shoulders to put some distance between them. “What--stop, Margaery--”

Margaery pressed her face to the column of Sansa’s neck. “I was jealous. I was jealous of him, of seeing red and gold on you. I was jealous that he shares your bed now,” said Margaery, tone dangerous while her fingers clutched at Sansa’s hips. Tight enough to show meaning yet not to bruise. “It’s not right of me, but. . . but, Sansa, I couldn’t help it,” her last sentence ended with a barely suppressed whine.

In King’s Landing, Sansa had long learned to never attach herself to anyone, and it had been easy: polite kindness, or indifferent and hatred, the latter caused by Joffrey and his guards.

But then there was Margaery, who had showed her all the kindness and grace in the world, who had her breasts pressed against Sansa’s back firmly while caressing the skin of her arms with such tenderness that contrasted the harsh punishment of the wicked men here. Oh, her Margaery, even though they were no one’s to keep. She would leave sooner or later, depending on her fate if leaving meant leaving King’s Landing or leaving the mortal world, though both seemed like valid options.

There will be Margaery’s wedding to the king, then Sansa will have to be all right with Margaery bound to a monster: bedding her when he liked even though she knew Margaery only wanted to lie beside Sansa. She hoped it would be up to there only, that the things she feared for herself would never happen to Margaery, sweet Margaery. Sansa would have to be all right with that. Sansa would have to watch Joffrey turn into the sweet-talking king to the brute that he is. Sansa would have to be all right with that, because she would be nothing if she wished Margaery anything but the best.

“Stop--” Sansa struggled to say betwixt kisses, yet her mind is clouded at once when Margaery nudges her back gently into the nearest wall, just beside a pillar that Margaery’s small body concealed Sansa’s taller frame. Margaery’s soft lips claimed hers, all the vigor gone and is renewed with gentle ones. Soft, and light, enough to clear everything from Sansa’s mind.

Oh, Sansa missed this. The taste of Margaery on her lips. The way she was so close to her again dizzied her, and Sansa rested her head on the wall behind her. “Shh,” whispered Margaery, hands planted on Sansa’s waist inched up to tangle with her orange tresses that glimmered in the sunlight.

Not here, no, not where someone can simply pass by and witness them kissing like the other’s lips contained the air they were breathing. Sansa placed her hands on Margaery’s shoulders, lightly pushing and tearing her away no matter how delicious her lips were. A string of saliva connected their lips, and Margaery’s glassy, dazed eyes regarded her carefully.

She just had to look at the girl across her, just had to see her face. Sansa wished this was not a dream, or else she would curse the gods. What a heavenly dream it is, if it was then. But the pang in her heart and the angry beating of it in her chest told her otherwise. Pressing their foreheads together, she whispers, “Not here,”. Her index finger fell to Margaery’s lips, the other girl kissing it fervently, and to her utter surprise Margaery shook her head and nestles it on Sansa’s neck to press wet, open mouthed kisses that she knew drove Sansa insane.

Pleased with Sansa’s moan of shock, Margaery laughed and nipped at her collarbone. “No one ever passes here; this is my corridor.”

“Still,” a gulp made its way down Sansa’s throat, and it was difficult to breathe when Margaery took another nip.

“Please, please Sansa, I need this,” Margaery begged (begged? Margaery never did the like, but the intonation of her voice betrayed her regality), “You need this too.”

And it was true; Sansa needed it, and the company of only her hand made her feel lonely and frustrated with weak orgasms and the image of Margaery’s flushed face behind her eyelids, the sound of Margaery’s moans and screams echoing in her ears.

“Are--are you sure?” Sansa managed to say, clutching at Margaery’s bare arms.

Margaery looked up and kissed her quickly, “Positive.”

Then Sansa lost all semblance of control when Margaery hiked up her skirt, finding their way underneath her smallclothes as Sansa gripped Margaery’s hair. Sansa will allow her this, because gods, she wanted this too.

If they are caught, well, they will cross the bridge when they get there.

Margaery bit the skin underneath Sansa’s jaw, replaced by her lips smoothing over the burning patch of skin only to be sucked between them until it bruises. “I’m sorry,” Margaery’s breath was hot in her ear when she said so then another bite under her ear. “Has--has Lord Tyrion--”

“No,” Sansa said fiercely, squeezing her eyes shut, breathing through grit teeth when Margaery palmed her breasts through the material of her dress. “He hasn’t, I. . .” she bit her lip to run her hands down Margaery’s arms, “I only touched myself thinking of you.”

Margaery moaned, kissing Sansa vigorously, “Good girl,” she whispered into Sansa’s lips then kissed her again, “You’re mine, only mine. You know you are.” The hand Margaery had on her chest left to caress her wetness teasingly. Sansa was sure she was going to come.

“It was so difficult to smile on your wedding day,” she murmured, “I dreaded to see you look beautiful in Lannister colors.” Margaery kissed her roughly, and Sansa tongued at the roof of Margaery’s mouth.

“I hated it when I saw you with him,” Margaery traced meaningless patterns on her thighs that made her wetter and hotter, “all I see at night is how he can lie beside you, bed you because he was your husband.”

“I don’t let him, oh--” Sansa replied, but halts when Margaery pressed a thumb on the stiffened bud between her legs. “I don’t let him touch me. I only touch myself,”

“Enlighten me on that,” Margaery laughed, her mouth falling on the place where Sansa’s nipples pebbled beneath her clothing. “Is it because you’re my girl? My sweet beautiful girl?”

“Yes,” another flick of her thumb on damp, warm flesh, “I don’t love him--I don’t--”

“I told you he was experienced, yes,” her throaty chuckle made Sansa’s knees buckle, “but I beat him in this. He surely is missing out on this.” Margaery’s finger found her slit and it slides into Sansa’s cunt with ease, her wetness slicking Margaery’s fingers.

Sansa mewled but Margaery swallows the sound with her mouth. “Don’t want to get caught, do we?” Her wicked finger slid in and out of Sansa as she whispered filthy things into her ear; Sansa would have been as red as her hair if only she were not flushed at the coupling now. Then a second finger. Then a third. Sansa was falling apart at the seams.

“You like this; the thrill of the possibility of being seen while being fucked. By me.” Margaery breathlessly said, and Sansa whimpered helplessly, only clutching Margaery tighter as if she were her saving grace from insanity. “Shh, what if your husband happens to walk by?” She bit Sansa’s ear, “how will we explain I’m the one his wife loves to fuck?” Their pace was feverish, hands pawing everywhere while Margaery pressed Sansa insistently on the pavement. Her touch made Sansa so lightheaded and the lack of air from Margaery’s embrace did not help the slightest. So she comes, and then her world is black then is white, and all she can smell is herself and the scent of Margaery pressed so close to her.

 

This was true: All of Sansa’s walls were shattered.

This was true: In the haze of her orgasm, she did not control herself enough.

 

“You’re the one I love,” Sansa rasped, voice husky from use.

 

This was true: This was the closest thing to love.

This was true: She wondered what it would take for this to be loved.

 

Margaery pulled away instantly, like Sansa’s touch scalded her. Her face was mixed with confusion, sadness, affection and surprise. “What did you say?” she asked, yet her tone did not sound like she completely hated her. The words spilled out softly, like she carefully chose her words in that short span of time. All Sansa wanted to do was bury herself under the ground, so she looked down and started fixing the laces fronting her gown with nimble fingers that shook only moments ago. Oh, she had ruined things now.

“Nothing, I didn’t say anything,” Sansa mumbled, dusting her gown.

Her back was turned as she fixes her hair, and Margaery was so quiet that she thought she had left. Sansa began to walk away, how she will pretend like none of this happened. Like she hadn’t been fucked against a wall a few paces away, but then a hand catches her wrist tightly.

Sansa turned to see Margaery, eyes so desperate. She swallowed before speaking, opening her mouth twice before words came out. And finally, “I love you.”

“I love you, Sansa,” Margaery said again, when Sansa just stared at her, much more hesitant this time, as if she wanted to take back the sudden candor.

 

This is true: This, this will be their downfall.

This is true: The girl who has everything will lose herself, and the girl who lost so much will lose more.

 

Sansa turned around to crush her lips against Margaery. This was too much to take, and Sansa will lose so much more. But what will she lose if everything else she had is gone?

“Sansa, sweetheart, slow down,” Margaery laughed, smoothing her hands down Sansa’s arms. Her eyes were dilated in the shade when Sansa looked at her, and a part of Sansa melted to know she drove Margaery to lose control like this.

“I love you,” Sansa said, pressing their foreheads together whilst taking the material of Margaery’s dress in her balled fists.

She didn’t dare tease Margaery, just drops to her knees and buries her face between her legs earning Sansa a hardly muffled scream that echoed through the vestibules. Her husband could walk in, for all she cared. She licks Margaery’s cunt, sweet and salty and she was so wet that her juices covered the entirety of Sansa’s chin, slowly dripping down her neck and she will never look at Margaery again without thinking of this.

Gods, Sansa could come from the sounds Margaery’s throat was making. “Sansa, I’m--I’m going to--” Margaery managed to say between moans, holding on Sansa’s head and she continued to push her tongue in and out, knowing that it drove Margaery mad to move this fast. Pressing a thumb to Margaery’s clitoris, Sansa hummed until Margaery screamed.

 

This was true: This, this will be their downfall.

 

She kissed Sansa, eyes wide from the release Sansa had given her. “I love you,” said Margaery between chaste kisses, contrasting their intense coupling moments ago.

If Sansa did not believe in love before, the sweetness of Margaery’s kiss made her believe now.

“I’m sorry,” Margaery said again, holding Sansa’s head between her hands, pressing their foreheads together. “We both know how things are supposed to be,” and it was true. Sansa is married and Margaery is about to be. There should be no space for jealousy.

Sansa chuckled and kissed her again, “I know,” betraying the sinking of her heart.

“I missed you,” Margaery beamed brightly at her and Sansa’s knees grew weak yet again.

“Is is true, though?”

Margaery hummed, taking orange locks between her fingers. “What is?”

Sansa was certain Margaery knew what she meant, but she answered anyway. “That you loved me.”

The sadness of her smile was an answer. “Of course I do. So much, Sansa. So much.” You passed through my walls. I give you control. You’ll hurt me, but it will be all right.

Margaery brought her to her chambers, and they walked in companionable silence at the admission, knuckles and shoulder brushing shyly.

It was like Sansa knew Margaery better, like Margaery handed her heart over to Sansa even if it seems so unlike her.

Then they made love again, with words of affection whispered against hot, sweaty skin, like there was no one in this world who would understand the language of them. Sansa saw stars twice after and returned the favor to Margaery.

They lay there, Sansa’s head on the curve of Margaery’s stomach while the girl played with her hair.

“I love you,” Margaery whispered as if it is a secret that only Sansa had the right to know.

 

This was true: Admitting it was difficult. Old habits died hard, and Sansa thought that love was just an illusion.

 

Sansa’s eyes slipped closed at the painful push between her ribs, screaming no, you don’t mean it. She found herself saying the same, despite her mind protesting.

Sometimes two halves of broken hearts fit together perfectly.

 

 

.............

_Predicament indeed, which thus discovers_  
_Honor among thieves, Honor between lovers._  
_O such a little word is Honor, they feel!_  
_But the grey word is between them cold as steel._  
  
_At length I saw these lovers fully were come_  
_Into their torture of equilibrium;_  
_Dreadfully had forsworn each other, and yet_  
_They were bound each to each, and they did not forget._

.............

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, currently writing the fifth chapter since I have more free time (or my priorities are just fucked up.) But hey, it's Femslash Feb. Favorite time of the year, alongside GoT and Award season and Christmas. :)


	3. They burned with fierce love always to come near

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY FEM SLASH FEB, PART II!
> 
> A bit of a trigger warning of violence here. I mean, it's just Joffrey being Joffrey. But hey, you gotta love the li'l shite, right? Not too graphic, I promise.

 

..........

  
_And rigid as two painful stars, and twirled_  
_About the clustered night their prison world,_  
_They burned with fierce love always to come near,_  
_But honor beat them back and kept them clear._

  
_Ah, the strict lovers, they are ruined now!_  
_I cried in anger. But with puddled brow_  
_Devising for those gibbeted and brave_  
_Came I descanting: Man, what would you have?_

..........

 

It’s one of those days where Margaery went away to fulfill her consorting duties around King’s Landing, and Joffrey remembered that Sansa was still caught in between his claws.

Margaery was not there to keep the boy king in check and in his best behavior and Sansa was called to the throne room only to be beaten by his men—half naked and stripped off her own dignity. They slapped her, heavy hands landing on her cheek and claw at Sansa’s skin; hands pummeling on her body on Joffrey’s whim, while he sneered and watched blood trickle down the wounds that open on her back, blood dripping down the length of her chin that it dots the floor when she bows down so low.

When he was done playing with her, Joffrey failing to elicit any sound of pain and agony from Sansa even if it ended up with a large gash under her neck, he released her. “Let that slut go,” he ordered, trying to put up a façade of being bored but failing miserably, sounding angry instead. “She’s done enough entertainment for me for a day.”

The guards step away, adrenaline shook their hulking bodies and Sansa stumbled away with knees aching and eyes stinging with tears that had been suppressed during the beating. Her handmaid, Olyvia, waited outside; hastily wiping the tears from hearing whatever had transpired behind the two heavy doors of the Red Keep. “There is no need to cry,” whispered Sansa, losing her balance that the woman caught her before she fell completely on the hard stone of the castle flooring. “Take me to the baths; I think I’ll be all right on my own there.”

“But my lady, you cannot even stand up,” Olyvia protested, carrying most of Sansa’s weight helping her to stand upright, but her joints would not permit it, and her legs were not her own.

“I will be fine,” Sansa reassured her with a wave of her hand, and it was mostly a lie. She thanks the Seven that she was still alive, but she cannot help wondering what life would have been if she was dead along with her father and Gods, her siblings, wherever they were.

There is not much to live for, Sansa muses, if I was going to live my life as a prisoner here until my death, I might as well die now.

She would be surprised if she lived long enough to be with her family again, whatever’s left of it: Mother, Robb, Jon, Rickon, Bran and Arya. She would be surprised if she would ever have the chance to walk once again on the cold, hard soil of Winterfell.

A few handmaidens that Sansa didn’t recognize arrived to her aid, supporting her other side then they are carrying her weight fully now. Her arms ached from being held up for so long as they moved slowly towards the baths nearing Sansa’s quarters. Her eyes shut with a sudden sleepiness and fatigue, eyesight blurry, bile rising unpleasantly in her throat, but she fell asleep, tasting the blood from inside her mouth dripping down from her lips and she is sure that she is leaving a trail of blood from her wounds.

Sansa’s mind did not leave her alone, conversely, and her brief sleep was haunted by the pains of the beating that was chosen not be felt in the throne room. Nothing to live for, she thinks unconsciously when the scent of roses fills her nostrils and a familiar silken voice whispers, “Let him carry her,” then Sansa is lifted off the ground. “I’ll follow suit. Where—yes, I’ll be there.”

Everything went black, and then the next time she wakes she is in the baths, lying on a long chair by the pool of tepid water, vapor warming the room and calming her overwrought muscles. Someone tended to the gash on her jaw.

 

This was true: She recognized the soft fingers and rosy scent almost immediately.

 

“Margaery. . .?’ Sansa slurred and a familiar huff of relieved laughter is in her reply followed by a soft kiss on her un-bruised cheek.

“Sweetheart,” Margaery cooed, her brows knitted with worry. “I shouldn’t have gone on that hunt with Father and the court. I should have stayed.” She caressed Sansa’s cheek with her thumb, leaning forward to press a kiss on Sansa’s sweaty forehead. “Joffrey should never be left alone with you.” Margaery’s queenly duties are inescapable and compulsory which should not be exchanged for a lover (a forbidden and secret one, at that.). Sansa knew that Margaery  lied about abandoning her responsibilities, but at the way she kissed her so tenderly and treated her bruises and wounds with such love and care, Sansa believed her for a moment.

“I don’t think you should leave me alone.” Sansa japed, chuckling softly but the slight movement makes her back throb with a soreness.

But Margaery didn’t join her, just smiles wanly, sweeping the auburn head sticking to her forehead. “I won’t.”

Sansa’s heart melted, even if a part of her instinctively shielded herself away from promises not meant to be kept.

Margaery took her hand, helping Sansa to rise to her feet tremulously. Her knees buckle as the bruises on her back ached. “Careful,” Margaery said, one hand holding Sansa’s arm and the other her waist as they move to the stairs of the bath, tiny steps that made Sansa’s muscles clench underneath her skin. Margaery lowered herself into the pool, supporting Sansa as they sink into the tepid water. They halt when the water rose at Sansa’s waist and Margaery’s chest for Margaery to soothingly peel the dress sticking to Sansa’s skin unnervingly, and the other girl makes sure that the bruises and wounds are not in contact with anything.

 

This was true: Her heart melted at how gentle Margaery’s hands were, as if she were handling glass.

This was true: How she loved the way Margaery is one of the very few people to show her such tenderness.

 

Then Sansa was bare, submerging unhurriedly into the temperate water rising to their necks, and Sansa’s overwrought muscles loosened as it made contact with the warmth. Margaery shedded her own dress, unlacing her corset under water, and tossing the heavy fabrics over her shoulder and to the dry pavement by the pool. “Turn around,” said Margaery seriously, jaw clenching as she caught the unattractive sight of the expanse of Sansa’s once white and smooth back tattered with angry red skin the shape of large hands, spots already turning into black and blue. “Seven Hells,” she cursed, running her hands down Sansa’s sides.

“Margaery,” Sansa laughed, trying to lighten the mood, but it clearly wasn’t working. “it’s nothing—”

“He could’ve killed you if he had the chance—”

Sansa turned around to hush her lover with a sweet kiss, sweeter than sugar cubes in their morning tea, sweeter than a Southron love song. Margaery sighed into her mouth, and Sansa pressed their foreheads together, speaking solemnly, “He could have had my head ages ago if he had the chance.”

Joffrey could have had her beheaded for many reasons, most of it she does not even know. He could have her beheaded for being a traitor’s sister; he could have her beheaded for being a traitor’s daughter. He could have her beheaded just for the entirety of seeing her suffer, ignorant that it would actually end the misery.

Margaery remained quiet, and spoke once again. “Willas is a good man,” Margaery replied, sadness and worry lingering in her eyes but she forced a smile. She leaned forward for a swift kiss. “I promise, he will be good to you.”

 

This was true: Sansa could not want another person. Sansa could not want the brother of the person she loves.

 

Seeing Margaery pained by the thought of giving away her lover to a person ever so close to her, much more a sibling she loves dearly made Sansa’s heart ache for her and whatever they have now. It was difficult to imagine the feeling of another sharing her bed when Sansa only wanted Margaery and her sweet lips, her soft and warm body, her whimpers and moans and screams, and soft fingers caressing her when sleep would not come to her. It was such a hard thing to imagine, being someone else’s even if her heart was captured by another.

 

This was true: Willas was not the one she desired with all her heart, but the woman in front of her.

 

“I know.” agreed Sansa when Margaery circled her arms around Sansa’s knees, only to lift her off her feet. Being submerged in the water, her weight lightened enough to be carried by Margaery’s slightly petite body, and Sansa hooked her ankles behind the dimples of Margaery’s back, toes nudging the stone walls. Sansa’s hands found Margaery’s face, kissing her deeply and tasting her mouth.

There is no need to rush, Sansa told herself when their movements grew heated and hurried. Her body was too sore for the exertion. “Slowly,” Sansa whispers between kisses, “please—slowly,”

She held her breath and lowered her head down into the water to tongue at Margaery’s already hard nipples. When she rose from the water Margaery claimed her lips hungrily.

“I won’t let him hurt you again.” Margaery whimpered, hands clumsily finding an object to latch on to, aware that Sansa’s back and neck is still tender. She clawed at the hard stone behind her, fingers grasping for the ledge of the bath, her arms rising and chest rising, the hint of teats emerging from the water.

Sansa pinched at the rosy nubs of Margaery’s teats, slowly and tortuously so, making Margaery arch into her. Trailing her fingers down to Margaery’s stomach, the tepid water feeling smooth as she glided southward, Margaery’s taut stomach contracted at her touch, earning a giggle from Sansa. Then she skimmed lower, hipbones flexing, Margaery struggling to grind herself on Sansa. Her hands found Margaery’s cunt, warmer than the water and she caressed around it, driving the older girl mad with her careful ministrations.

“Hold on to my head,” Sansa instructed, “watch for the wounds.” Margaery did so, latching on to Sansa like she was the only that kept her alive. Her fingers threaded through wet reddish-brown hair, and she kissed Sansa with a hunger.

“Fuck me,” Margaery ordered and pulled Sansa’s lower lip between hers. “Please.”

Then Sansa slid a finger through Margaery’s slit and she gasped into her mouth. “Gods, I love you,” Sansa mumbled fiercely into her mouth, and Margaery hooked her knee on Sansa’s hip, still careful of the wounds even it was far from the area. Her hand slipped in and out faster and faster, as fast as the water (and her condition) could allow. The water splashed around them and Margaery’s shouts grew in volume, echoing in the large baths. Sansa swallowed her shots when she pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her lover. She presses her thumb on the nub between her legs, the sensitive one that Sansa loved biting when she kissed her there.

“I love you.” Margaery replied betwixt kisses with a radiant smile while they locked lips. Then Margaery pulled away, gliding out of her touch, wading her way to settle behind Sansa.

Sansa helped on to the stone and Margaery begun pressing feather-light kisses on each blemish on her back, making the pain go away, somehow like how her mother would kiss her wounds from sewing. The warmth of Margaery’s lips soothed every single raw muscle. “I won’t let Joffrey hurt you again,” Margaery promised, holding Sansa’s hips and pulling her towards hers, Sansa’s ass directly in front of her cunt. “I won’t permit it.”

Margaery pressed her breasts to Sansa’s back lightly, pulling Sansa’s hair to hang on the other side of her neck. “Is this all right,” Margaery breathes into her ear, her ragged inhalation making bumps rise on Sansa’s skin, “am I hurting you?” She shakes her head, because the only ache she feels is the queer pulse between her legs.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you.” Margaery’s tone strongly reminded Sansa of the first time they had made love at her chambers. Margaery repetitively asked what Sansa had felt, asking permission to touch her in any place, knowing that she had been in Sansa’s first. Sansa believed her, trusting Margaery to kiss the place only she herself has touched.

Are you all right, Margaery had asked, so close to Sansa’s teats that her warm breaths sent chills down her spine. Do you like this, Margaery had asked, pinching Sansa’s nipples until they stood to attention at Margaery’s touch. Do you want to do this, Margaery had asked, her fingers right above Sansa’s slit.

Her fingers skimmed lower, starting at Sansa’s teats—the soft weight of it in Margaery’s hands, then to her stomach and Margaery kissed the wound underneath Sansa’s jaw, firmly pressing her breasts to Sansa’s back remaining watchful of the tender skin there. Margaery’s lips sooth the pain as if she had the ability to heal every wound Sansa had—inside and outside. Margaery finds Sansa’s clit, rubbing it gently with her middle finger and it made guttural moan leave Sansa’s mouth every time she circles it, making Sansa see stars behind her closed eyelids. “Seven Hells,” Sansa groaned, leaning into Margaery, the effort making her insides twitch with momentary ache, but she chooses to ignore it in exchange of the sensation of Margaery’s body pressed against hers.

Sansa’s arm landed on the stone wall as Margaery held her from behind, the water whooshing when she grips the ledge tightly. Everything went white and warm when Margaery slides two fingers in, and Gods, Sansa was so wet that within a few moments of thrusting her hand, she felt another finger inside her, Margaery caressing her silken walls.

Sansa mewled, thrashing about, because the edge drove her insane. Her eyesight has gone from white to black, and black to white, Margaery whispering sweet encouragements into her ear. “You come so beautifully.” She said, nipping at Sansa’s ear. Sansa’s legs tensed and her whimpers have grown so high-pitched that her throat has given up, instead she just panted and groaned and moaned.

“Faster,” Sansa commanded; she forgets slow and careful, forgets the soreness of her body from Joffrey’s beatings, forgets Joffrey, forgets King’s landing, “please.”

The world was just Margaery and her wicked fingers pumping fast inside her and the warm water making their bodies slick and wet.

 

This was true: In that moment, nothing else existed but Margaery, her warmth and the ecstatic feeling blooming in every point.

And there came oblivion, where Sansa has been thrown in at her release. Every nerve on her body exploded with her pleasure, and Sansa screams but Margaery silences her with her mouth. Her heart races in her chest yet she realizes that her body was more relaxed that it had ever felt this day, and the gut feeling of sadness and pain have been replaced with breathless ecstasy and satisfaction.

“You’ll let the entire castle know what we do when we’re alone,” Margaery laughed, turning Sansa around with care. The water has grown still and tranquil. “You scream so loudly.”

Sansa giggled breathlessly in reply, kissing Margaery until she is sure there is no air left in her chest.

At her chambers, it is not her handmaidens who tend to her in the evening, but it is Margaery. She gave her Milk of the Poppy, and various ointments to cool the burns of the wounds, and cream to clean the wound on her neck.

Sansa fell asleep promptly beside Margaery, arms embracing the smaller girl with their legs tangled underneath the sheets. “I won’t let him hurt you again,” she heard Margaery whisper quietly into Sansa’s hair at the brink of heavy sleep, so quietly that Sansa couldn’t tell the difference of it being a segment of her dream, or reality. Sansa clasped hands tighter between her own. “Wait and see. I will protect you, my wolf.”

 

............

  
_For spin your period out, and draw your breath,_  
_A kinder saeculum begins with Death._  
_Would you ascend to Heaven and bodiless dwell?_  
_Or take your bodies honorless to Hell ?_

_In Heaven you have heard no marriage is,_  
_No white flesh tinder to your lecheries,_  
_Your male and female tissue sweetly shaped_  
_Sublimed away, and furious blood escaped._

............

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, terribly sorry. 4th installment coming soon. As for the fifth, it's really a pickle. But there will be angst. Yay? Thanks for reading!


	4. The pieces kiss again, no end to this.

_............._

_Great lovers lie in Hell, the stubborn ones_

_Infatuate of the flesh upon the bones;_

_Stuprate, they rend each other when they kiss,_

_The pieces kiss again, no end to this._

............. 

 

When Tyrion told her, it was like an arrow through her heart, not so different from the one that pierced the heart of her brother.

Her legs guided her to Margaery’s room without consciousness and before she knew it her hand was knocking on Margaery’s door and was greeted by the sight of Margaery. How she missed Marg, how the sound of her voice quieted all the others that screamed inside her head when she lies awake at night.

Sansa found herself in the arms of this wonderful girl, her own around her neck and she allowed it, for she knew that Margaery’s hands would never close around her neck to kill her. The tears are spilling, unbidden, from the rims of her eyes to the silky material of Margaery’s dress.

This was true: part of her would always want to touch Margaery, kiss Margaery, make her moan--draw it out as slowly as possible.

This was true: but now, now is not the time for slow and steady, Sansa thought dazedly. Now is the time for rough kisses, hands seeking purchase on skin. Because this is Margaery, Margaery is the only thing she has left, this was what she had left. Whatever this was.

And she found herself seeking the company of Margaery, seeking her soft lips and her soft skin and everything that she had denied herself long after her marriage to Tyrion. And after a few nights, Margaery will no longer be hers. Margaery will be the wife of the King, and Margaery will be the queen of the realms.

Margaery was never hers, anyway. So she only had _this_.

That night, Sansa took and took and never gave back. Allowed Margaery to treat her right, to run her damp palms on Sansa’s trembling thighs. She allowed Margaery to hold her tight and sew the pieces back together with thin strings. It will not hold her back to her old self but is enough, enough to let sleep one night without Robb’s laughter and her mother’s soothing words ringing in her ears.

This was true: as soon as she came down from the highs of her pleasure, tears leaked at the corners of Sansa’s eyes before she knew it. If it had been a different person, she would have been embarrassed to sob on the bare shoulder of her lover right after pulling her fingers out of her still wet core to bury it in her hair to hold her close.

This was true: It wasn’t a different person. It was Margaery. And she allowed Sansa to cry all the tears she held back, the tears she cannot shed around the vicinity of monsters of King’s Landing.

This was true: Margaery held her as she cried, not saying anything but only holding her as if sheer will could bring back her lover’s brother and mother and father.

Later that night, Margaery was stroking the auburn strands on Sansa's head. Massaged her scalp. Held her closer and tighter in a flurry of tangled limbs and sweaty bodies.

"I have an idea," the other girl whispered beneath her, Sansa's thumbs rubbing the supple curve of Margaery's breast.

“Hurt me, Sansa,” Margaery told her, stroking Sansa’s bruised cheek with lightness, with the soft skin. “Learn to take control when it’s given to you.”

Sansa’s eyes bulged out, mouth hanging in confusion. That was downright horrifying. She couldn’t--she wouldn’t--she won’t--

Margaery regarded her with those big brown eyes, tousled hair tumbling down in a tangle of curls down her body. Face, bereft of berry tints and rims of her almond-shaped eyes without the accentuation of charcoal.

How she was more beautiful that way, Sansa will never know, but Margaery is already pressing quick, firm kisses to her lips.

Hurting her, that is something can never find herself doing.

The kiss grew hungrier, Margaery rolling them so that Sansa straddled her hips. Mouths slipping over one another, melting into another and another and another. Because Sansa wanted to remember Margaery, until she didn’t remember what her own mouth tasted like.

Margaery moved her hips to Sansa’s in a frenzied manner, and Sansa barely registered how the other girl took her wrist and pulled at it harshly. Sansa’s hand landed on the plump skin of Margaery’s ass with a crack that scared Sansa yet had a satisfying ring to it.

“Please, Sansa,” Margaery said, attacking her lips with more kisses, taking her wrist again to have it land on skin again, but Sansa stopped it a hairsbreadth away from Margaery.

“N-no, Marg,” she said, because she didn’t want to anymore.

But Margaery will not relent, kissing Sansa harder and shaking her head. “Sansa, Sansa, my love, it’s all right, I promise you,”

Sansa secured her knees on Margaery’s hips and leaned to the side to have Margaery under her. And Sansa rained kisses on her lips, her nose, her eyelids. No, she did not want to hurt Margaery, so instead she will settle with what she knows will drive Margaery mad. The fact that she can drive this girl insane under her ministrations will show her control.

She kept her face burrowed in Margaery’s neck as she ran her hands all over her skin, which made Margaery frustrated. Her hands found Sansa’s hair again, clutching at it, but she took Margaery’s wrists and held her hands above her head and bit at the soft skin laid across her.

She tucked her thigh in the space of Margaery’s legs, rubbed against with deliberate slowness and appreciated the low, feral moan that Margaery made.

Sansa shifted her leg under Margaery’s with uncomfortable effort. They have never done this before, well, she has never done this before. “Can I ask you something?”

Her reply is of short breath, the arousal clouding her eyes cleared for a moment and Margaery lied there, eyes wide with her chest rising and falling. “Anything, my sweet.”

Sansa bit her lip, the lowered herself down with their breasts pressing to each other. A chill is sent down her spine, like ice crystals falling down the length of her spine with each breath Margaery breathes with a short “ _\--ah_!” at Sansa’s leg engulfed in the warmth of her cunt. She groaned when Margaery raised her leg with her knee to her own center, eyesight fading into black, and she is as wet as her maybe even wetter.

“Make all the sounds you can make.”

She’s not sure where that came from--doesn’t know why she asked it but then Margaery was smiling with those green pupils that were now darker than Sansa had ever seen them. And then when Sansa pushed further into her, Margaery mewled as loud only for Sansa to swallow it.

Sansa curled her fingers into the skin of Margaery’s stomach, nails biting and she relished the muffled scream the came after, and the gasp when she dragged her hands down the smooth plane to create red line. Red lines that writes Sansa on her stomach. Sansa on her back. Sansa on every single corner of Margaery’s being. She liked it that way. It made the wolf that she never thought was in her in her howl.

“Sansa, _gods_ , do that again,” she said, arching up her back and Sansa scooped her to bring her up to her. Nails landed on unblemished, pale backs and they both moan at the matching sensation of burning that is instantly cooled by the crisp night air.

There will be red marks in the morning, red marks that Sansa desperately wished will never fade away.

This was true: when Sansa came, there were eight lines on her back and Margaery had four on her stomach and two on her back.

This was true: when Margaery came, she knew their hearts were beating as one. A kiss on the neck, a kiss on her shoulder, a kiss between her breasts and gods, Sansa loved her. Sansa loved her. _Sansa loved her._

They collapsed together, Sansa on top with her hair falling over them like auburn curtains. She kissed her, and it felt like being alive. Like she remembered Sansa Stark, a girl who liked sewing and reading about knights and ladies.

This was true: Sansa stopped believing in knights in stories.

This was true: Sansa did not stop believing someone was going to save her.

The knight does not have to be a man who wields a sword. The knight does not have to have a handsome face and a chivalrous manner.

She may be beautiful with sweet lips and a kindness that will match no one’s. And Sansa. . . _Sansa will miss all that._

When she came, she put their foreheads together and cried for the last time, droplets falling on Margaery's eyes.

 

“What are they going to do when they see. . . _all these_?” Sansa asked, nibbling on her thumb. “What will Joffrey do if he sees? Oh, oh gods.”

Margaery struggled to remain her breathing after that intense release, and Sansa smiled sadly. She will miss hearing those sighs more than anything. “It’s quite all right, it could always be from the bedding. He won’t even notice.”

Sansa nodded stifly, because that was all she could do. No tears would fall, even though she was giving away this wonderfully beautiful girl to a monster. _No, no._

“Sansa, stay. Run away with me,” Margaery proposed, hands tangled in the auburn locks of Sansa’s hair. Her lips still slick with their mixed saliva. Sansa licked and blew into the marks she made, Margaery squirming under her. “To Highgarden. I’ll take you away and you’ll be Willas’ wife and we’ll be happy.”

Sansa stuttered. It was all too much; she had long learned not to allow desire reach the depths of where her heart used to be. “Margaery--”

The other girl held her closer, forehead nudging Sansa’s. “Please, Sansa,” she pleaded and it was so very unlike Margaery that if Sansa did not see the look in her eyes, she would not have believed her. “I wish to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Acid dripped in Sansa’s voice before she could even stop herself. “You have Joffrey.”

Margaery’s brows furrowed in confusion, opening her mouth and closing as if she was to say something she would regret later. “I don’t love him, Sansa. He’s a monster. Do you not see that?”

“You’re going to marry him and have his children, Margaery.” The thought drove a knife to her chest.

“I don’t have to love a man to bear his children.” It was more Margaery’s tone than the cold wind that made her shiver.

Sansa sat upright, back to the headboard of Margaery’s bed. “This is not honorable, what we’re doing,” her legs folded to her chest in a vulnerable position. Margaery sat beside her, naked and bare, but covered the both of them with her sheets. “Joffrey could have my head for this.”

“My head, also, in case you have forgotten.” Margaery told her, an inch between their bodies. “Sansa, I want this. I want to have more of this, more of you. I want to bring you to my home. Marrying Willas will not be an option if it meant for you to come with me.” There was a soft tone in her voice that made Sansa want to bend to both their desires.

“You would do that for me?”

This was true: if Margaery’s smile falter’s a bit, the last bit of hope in her did the same.

She decided to prod further. “What if we left for anywhere and lived as different people? We’ll dye our hair, change our names,” Margaery’s caressing hands stilled. Sansa continued. “No Joffrey. No Cersei Lannister. No throne.”

A beat.

“Would you do that for me, Margaery?”

It would mean giving up queenship. It would mean leaving her family.

Sansa rubbed more salt onto hers and Margaery’s wounds. “Would you? Would you do that for me?”

The difficulties of having everything you love.

“Sansa, I--” That was all she was able to say before Sansa stood to retrieve her discarded clothing on the floor.

Margaery truly was the lucky one. The girl who has everything will not give up everything she has for a sad girl who lost everything she loved.

“No, Lady Margaery,” she said, tying her corset as decent as possible at her pace, “do not even try and say something,” she slid her dress over her.

Sansa hated the fact she allowed herself to feel something for a girl who was not capable of risking--of giving up. She could not blame Margaery because Sansa wouldn’t give up her family for a lover, because after everything that has been done to her and her family, she supposed Queen Cersei was correct. Loving is poison and love will tear you apart. All those times Margaery said it, she was probably lying through her teeth while Sansa, who did not say it as often, meant it with every passing moment. Meant those three words that destroyed them both.

“Sansa, please, my love,” implored Margaery, staning to take Sansa’s wrist in her hand, only to be pushed away with spite. “Yes, I’ll go with you. I’ll run away with you, please stay.”

‘My love,’ Sansa scoffed in silence. It was too late. Sansa had finished tying the laces of her corset to even bother sparing Margaery a second glance.

This was true: Sansa told herself that the reason why she did not look at Margaery is because she hated her face, hated her beautiful, heart shaped face.

This was true: But she knew it was because if she did look at Margaery, matched with her begging voice, she will stay.

As Sansa was reaching for the door, she halted, mind assessing her actions its outcomes.

The future queen spoke, in a very low, dubious voice. “Wait and see, Sansa,” said Margaery. “I’m doing it for the good of you, me and the entirety of the seven kingdoms.”

Sansa had not but an idea on what Margaery was saying, so she bit back, threw icy words over her shoulder. “What, use me? Yes, I agree, my lady. How helpful it is to show what a stupid child I am for falling for. . .”

Biting her lip, she halted, gripped the handle of the door tighter her knuckles grew stark white.

“. . .falling for your tricks. How stupid. I should have known.” She turned back to the sight of Margaery, the flames of her anger diminishing. Margaery’s brows were furrowed, eyes imploring and glassy. In the small light of the room, Sansa saw the lines under her eyes. In the small light, Sansa thought she had seen Margaery for who she truly was; saw her soul and her intentions. She saw that Margaery could love her, did love her.

Tears glistened on skin, twin trails on Margaery’s cheeks. “I didn’t--I don’t--Sansa, my love, please. . .”

There was no more time, Sansa had no more strength to listen to whatever Margaery had to say for she had already slammed the door and walked away.}

This was true: when the door latched back, she heard muted, choked sobs that were loud enough to pass through the door.

This was true: Sansa’s back fell against the stone walls of the hall and it _stung_. She cried, until the sound of glass crashing and breaking emerged and that when she stood, dusted herself, hastily wiped off tears on her cheek and walked away with a straight back, her chin held up high, even with tears leaking in her eyes.

 

On the day of the wedding, when she sees Margaery walk down the aisle of the Sept of Baelor, all the memories of their infatuation played back in her mind. Every step Margaery took was a kiss to her mouth, a kiss to her neck, a kiss to between her legs.

The red lines on her back stung, ached, wanted to be soothed by the person who made them.

This was true: she pushed away the bitter thought, it could have been you she was kissing, underneath the weirwood trees of Winterfell.

And when Margaery and Joffrey raised their entwined hands, she clapped with no fervor and felt a strange concoction of anger, jealousy, sadness and pain to see sweet, sweet Margaery, the only person she could ever have loved in this wretched place called King’s Landing.

Margaery met her eyes and if Sansa had not known her she would smiling, yet there was a promise, this promise that Sansa swatted away.

_Please, my love._

Acid words slip past her mouth again, its taste sour. “We have a new queen.”

This was true: Her husband replied, “Better you than her.”

This was true: Sansa was strangely relieved.

_..................._

_But still I watched them spinning, orbited nice._

_Their flames were not more radiant than their ice._

_I dug in the quiet earth and wrought the tomb_

_And made these lines to memorize their doom:—_

 .............

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What theee fuuuuck it's been half a year since I wrote for this??? Ugh. Sorry this took so long! I've been extremely busy lately and haven't been getting enough time to rest, much less write. I'm also working on a lot of pieces for and with friends, Sansa/Margaery ones, don't worry. It will be great, I promise. Anyway thank you for sticking with me, and with my other story (Rooftops Are Made for Jumping). That one will be third in my writing priorities right now. 
> 
> Thank you for the kudos and all the comments! You all have been lovely. :-) And because of that, I'm going to share something about what Kathryn and I have been working on: an amnesia and/or supernatural S/M fic!!!! [crowd cheering] We'll get on it, I promise. 
> 
> And then soon, there will be life in the Sansa Margaery tag!!! And I will be there to provide said life!!! Along with my friends who love these lesbians in Highgarden!!!
> 
> Thanks once again!

**Author's Note:**

> Got this started in May, I think. But then classes got to me and it has been pressuring. It's not that I didn't want to write (or it's not that I died [because my brain did because of accounting and integ PhysChem]). Well, it was the holidays and I wanted to give this before the year ended.
> 
> 3/5 chapters done with everything. Hooray.


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